


Imprompt-a-thon

by shadowen



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Challenges, Curtains, Drabble Collection, Drunk Phil, Established Relationship, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fic, Scars, Schmoop, Tropes, de-aged Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fills for the <a href="http://shadowen.tumblr.com/post/85685427792/send-me-a-word-and-a-character-s-and-ill-write-a">emotions meme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imprompt-a-thon

**5\. Aggravated, Bruce, for teatrousers**

"You have got to come see this."

"Sure. In a minute."

"No, seriously. This is amazing. Come look."

"I will, Tony. Just wait one s-"

"You're gonna miss it! What are you even working on? You can just set that t-"

"I swear to god, if you touch this experiment, I will find a way to lock you out of the lab."

"...Okay. Sorry. Take your time."

"Thank you."

...

"...Are you done yet?"

"OH MY GOD."

  


**10\. Aroused, Maria/Pepper**

Maria has a thing for competent women, especially competent women in pastel suits and high heels. She definitely has a thing for women who can walk into a room and command it with nothing but a pleasant smile and sharp look, which is exactly what she’s been watching Pepper Potts do five times a day for past week, and it’s starting to get to her.

“As I recall, we asked your department for a thirty percent decrease in the cost of production,” Pepper is saying calmly to a small cluster of terrified scientists. “You promised a fifteen percent decrease within the quarter. However, according to this week’s report, not only did you not achieve your ‘guaranteed’ fifteen percent, it appears that the cost per unit actually went up. Explain to me how that happens, please.”

The scientists trip all over each other trying to offer appeasement, all stuttering voices and frantic gestures. Pepper just listens serenely and lets them dig themselves a hole that is just deep enough.

“Alright,” she says, and the sound of jaws snapping shut is audible.

Maria recrosses her legs for the third time this meeting. She’s supposed to be shadowing Pepper, observing the daily ins and outs of Stark Industries, and she has been. She’s also observed that Pepper is a fucking queen, and she barely hears the final verdict for the scientists, because all she can think about is crawling under the desk and putting her face between Pepper’s thighs.

Finally, the gaggle of lab coats departs, and Pepper heaves a deep sigh. “This must be the most boring thing in the world for you,” she remarks.

“It’s really not,” Maria assures her. “Chewing out subordinates is a pretty universal necessity.”

Pepper laughs. “I guess it would be,” she admits. “Anyway, it’s boring for me, and I could use a drink. Would do you think about going somewhere to discuss your security plan over martinis?”

Maria grins. “Sounds like my kind of night.”

 

  
**28\. Delirious, Clint, for roses-rambles**

_(also fulfilling a request for “teeth-rottingly fluffy” C/C for darkmagyk)_

Clint's head is spinning. It's like falling, plummeting, the universe rushing past, and when he reaches out, instead of a rope to catch him, there are warm hands and strong arms to hold him up.

There are probably dozens of questions he could be asking, questions he should be asking, but there's no room inside him for anything but dizzy, relentless joy. When he does get his tongue to move and his lips to make words, all he can manage is, "H- _how_?"

Phil just holds onto him tighter. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore."

No, Clint thinks. It doesn't matter. Nothing else matters but this.

 

 

**54\. Hopeless, Kate, for teatrousers**

The car breaks down halfway through Ohio, and Kate winds up standing on the side of the road, kicking the tires and swearing while a little stream of smoke puffs mournfully out of the engine. She misses and hits the hub cab, stumbling back with a yell. Lucky sticks his head out of the passenger window and whines.

Kate flings herself against the side of the car and slides down to sit on the hot, dusty asphalt. "Well, what the fuck are we gonna do now?"

Lucky gives another whine, and she doesn't know if he's commiserating or worried that they're not moving anymore. Every second they sit here is another second they're not in New York, another second that...

Kate bangs her fist on the car door. " _Fuck_!" she screams, and Lucky yelps, startled.

The wind from a passing truck kicks up around her, tugging at her hair and blowing dirt against the lenses of her sunglasses. As the dust settles, Kate breathes out a long sigh.

 "Okay. Fine," she mutters as she climbs to her feet. She pulls her backpack and bow out of the back seat and sticks a note under the windshield wiper that reads, WILL BE BACK. "Well, we can't walk to New York," she tells Lucky, who has jumped out of the car and is wagging his tail tentatively. "But we're sure as hell not gonna sit here and wait."

  


**57\. Humiliated, Carol, for teatrousers**

"Oh my god." Carol buried her face in her hands. "Please tell me I didn't actually say that." Jess just nodded and kept right on cackling. "Oh my god."

“You were s- ah ha ha! Oh, you were so out of it,” Jess wheezed. “It was great! You just... You just reached over and grabbed the back of Rhodey’s suit, and...”

Carol groaned. “No, no, no, no. Alien crazy gas, why.”

“And you said... And, oh my god, you were so loud. You said, ‘These vents make your ass look awesome’!”

Carol pulled a pillow over her head and groaned again.

  


**62\. Insecure, Clint/Coulson**

Phil catches hold of Clint’s wrists, stopping his hands as they reach for the row of buttons. “Wait.”

“What is it? Are you okay?” Clint’s voice hangs somewhere between worried and turned on, and it would be absurd if it wasn’t so perfect.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just that...” Phil swallows back the bile that rises whenever he thinks about it. “There’s a scar.”

The look that crosses Clint’s face is... complicated. “Well, yeah. Of course there is.”

Phil thinks that should do something to settle his nerves, but it doesn’t. “Of course, but I just... I thought you should be warned. It’s bad.”

Holding Phil’s eyes, Clint reaches forward again, and his fingertips brush Phil’s throat as he works open the first button. He moves slowly, and Phil holds his breath, more certain with every inch of skin that Clint will see the truth and realize the extent to which Phil has been broken, how much of him has been gouged away by death and age. They’re so close, and they’ve waited so long that he can’t bear the thought of Clint turning away now.

Finally, Clint pushes the shirt away and rakes his eyes slowly down Phil’s chest, taking in the scored and twisted flesh. There’s a matching scar on Phil’s back, but he can only deal with presenting one disfigurement at a time. After a moment, Clint asks, “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s sensitive, but it doesn’t hurt,” Phil says, and, to his surprise, Clint grins wickedly.

“Good,” Clint replies, planting a hand over Phil’s heart, palm pressing against the scar, and pushing him unceremoniously back onto the bed. “Now quit stalling.”

  


**79\. Pained, Clint/Coulson**

The expectation on moving into an apartment together involved romantic notions of domestic bliss, the satisfaction of joined lives, and the excitement of have unrestricted access to each other at all times. The reality, on the other hand, involved a single-bedroom cubby hole with one window and industrial white walls. The lack of furniture made the place look like a hospital ward, without the familiar charm.

The first order of business, then, was finding things to fill up the stark space, which, in turn, led to the single longest half hour of Phil's life, to date.

"What about this one?" Clint asked, holding up a sample curtain in bright green with a pattern of sparkly pink sequins.

Phil tried not to let his horror show. "I'm not sure that's really the aesthetic we're going for."

"We're going for an aesthetic? I thought we just wanted it to not look like the inside of a refrigerator." Clint held up another sample with tie-dye printed octopi. "What about this one?"

"What about something in a solid color?" Phil suggested. "Maybe a nice red or..." Clint pulled out a sample of neon magenta. "No."

"Oh come on! I've picked out, like, a hundred things, and you haven't liked any of them."

"They've all been..." Phil tried to think of a nice word for _horrifying_. "...a little loud."

"So? They've got character," Clint protested. "What do you want? You want something like this?" He grabbed a sample in simple, drab navy.

"That's... more of what I was thinking, yes," Phil replied, and a pained expression crossed Clint's face.

"Right. Gotcha," Clint said tightly. "Pick what you want, then. Doesn't matter to me."

Phil frowned. "But you said you wanted to..."

"Doesn't matter," Clint repeated. "It's your apartment. Do what you want."

"It's _our_ apartment."

"For now, sure." Clint was strolling around the wide aisle, hands in his pockets, looking everywhere except at Phil. "When things go to shit, and you kick me out, then it'll be yours. May as well fix it up how you like it."

Phil stared at him in stunned silence for a long moment, and Clint still wouldn't look up. Finally, Phil declared evenly, "Bullshit."

"What?" Clint snapped.

"That's bullshit, and you know it," Phil said. "You're trying to guilt me into letting you get one of these monstrosities to put in our home."

Clint scowled and muttered, "Fuck you."

"Oh, for..." Phil stomped back up the aisle and grabbed a tag for the least offensive of Clint's choices: a light, shiny lavender with bright blue pinstripes and shoved it into Clint's hands. "Fine. We're getting that one. Are you happy now?"

The scowl vanished, replaced by a sweet, smug grin. "Getting there."

"Asshole," Phil muttered, and Clint's grin widened.

"You love me."

He did. God help him, he really did. "You're still an asshole."

Clint leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Yes, dear."

  


**80\. Panicky, Clint/Coulson**

Phil doesn't do fear. He doesn't do phobias, he doesn't do freak-outs, and he certainly doesn't do panic.

That's what he tells himself every time the cold starts to claw it's way into his blood, every time his chest starts to clench and his breaths shorten. He tells himself, over and over, that he is a good soldier and a goddamn agent of SHIELD, and nothing so mundane as combat PTSD is going to make him freeze when his agents need him.

He's pinned down, repeating it like a prayer in his head, when his comm switches over to a private channel, shutting off the shouted reports and demands for orders. " _I've got eyes on you, sir. Have you clear in a second_."

Phil forces air into his lungs and manages to say, "You're supposed to keep eyes on the primary target, Barton."

" _Target's accounted for_ ," Barton replies calmly. " _All units on task. Take a second and breathe, sir_."

The gunfire keeping Phil stuck is starting to thin, presumably as Barton picks off the shooters. He closes his eyes and curses himself for losing control. "Thank you for the concern, agent, but it's not necessary."

" _No concern, sir. Just giving you some breathing room_." Barton's voice is even and soothing, and Phil finds his pulse slowing to match the steady cadence.

Phil takes a long, deep breath in through his nose, filling up his aching lungs, and lets it out slowly. Another breath, another release. He is Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD, and he can do this. "Thank you, Agent Barton. Think you can clear a path for me?"

He can hear the grin as Barton answers. " _It'd be my pleasure, sir. Start heading for your two o'clock_."

Phil starts running, switching back to the open channel as Barton's arrows rain around him. "Strike team, report. What's the status of that base?"

He can do fear. He can handle panic. Apparently, having Barton for back-up helps.

  


**86\. Proud, Jemma, for sailorwolfmoon**

Skye's gotten flowers before, but never like this. The blossoms look at once crystalline and soft, glowing faintly where the light shines through them. They cast rainbows on table like a chandelier, a riot of colors and shivering lights.

"It's just rock candy," Jemma explains. "I programmed an algorithm to stimulate the growing medium in a way that would make the crystals take on specific shapes. Fairly simple, really, though it did take a while. Science is patience, as they say. In any case, I thought might prefer them to botanical flowers, which might be more aesthetically pleasing but obviously lack the benefit of also being candy."

Grinning, Skye carefully breaks off one delicate leaf and pops it into her mouth. The flavor is sugary and minty, and Jemma is watching her reaction anxiously.

"Unless, of course, you don't like candy," Jemma babbles on. "Some people don't, I suppose. Or maybe you don't like flowers. That is a rather narrow assumption, that, being a girl, you would like flowers." Jemma's eyes widen. "Oh god, you don't, do you? You don't like flowers. Of course you don't. I've made a dreadful mistake."

She breaks off when Skye picks up her hand off the table and kisses the back of it. "I love them," Skye says honestly. "Really, they're... This is the best gift. They're perfect."

Jemma beams. "Oh. Oh, well, in that case, well done me."

  


**91\. Shocked, Clint/Coulson, luuv2shop**

Coulson doesn't drink, and Clint doesn't drink with other people, so the first shock of the night is when Coulson appears on his doorstep with a bottle of cheap bourbon and a miserable expression.

"It's my birthday," Coulson murmurs, and Clint stands aside to let him in without a word.

He's already well into the bottle, and he shares it with Clint in silence as they sit on Clint's creaking, threadbare couch. Clint's just starting to catch up when it occurs to him to say, "Happy birthday."

Coulson snorts. "If it was happy, I wouldn't be drinking."

"Least you're not drinking alone," Clint points out. Coulson takes another swallow and doesn't answer. "You wanna talk about it?" The silence that follows sounds like a no, so Clint tries, “You wanna watch _Dog Cops_?”

Quietly, Coulson says, “Forty-one. I’m forty-one.” Clint knows that, of course, and he waits patiently until Coulson goes on, “They threw me a party last year, because forty’s supposed to be the big one, but no-one ever talks about forty-one.”

Clint nods, sympathetic. “Feeling the years, huh?”

“ _Wasted_ years,” Coulson spits, and, for the second shock of the night, he adds, “Fucking lonely, wasted years.” He shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ve been working all week, trying not to think about it, thinking I could just stay focused on other things, and it would just pass by. But I finished early. Today, of all fucking days, I finished early, and there was nothing left to do.”

“So you went home and started drinking?” Clint reaches for the bottle and knocks back a mouthful.

“I started drinking,” Coulson corrects. “Couldn’t stand the thought of going home.”

There’s really nothing Clint can say to that, so he asks, “You want a sandwich? I’m gonna make some sandwiches.” He stands and, after a moment’s thought, pulls Coulson up with him. He can see the couch from the kitchenette, but he suspects that proximity might be important, right now.

“You’re a good person,” Coulson informs him with the earnestness of the very drunk.

“Um. Thanks?”

“You are,” Coulson insists, dropping obediently onto a barstool as Clint guides him. “You’re good and smart and funny and brave and just... just good.” He fixes Clint with a serious look. “You should quit.”

“Quit being good?”

“Quit SHIELD.”

And there goes shock number three. Clint nearly drops the jar of peanut butter. “The fuck?”

“You should quit SHIELD,” Coulson says. “You could go... I don’t know, do whatever you want to do. Did you ever think about having a family? I never thought about it, but you could. Even if you don’t, you could have a life and people and things to do on your birthday.”

“So you’re saying... what? That I should quit before I end up forty-one and shitfaced in my friend’s apartment?” Clint sets a sandwich and a glass of water in front of Coulson, moving the bourbon out of reach. “I think I can say pretty confidently that’s not likely to happen.”

“You don’t think you’re going to live that long,” Coulson observes around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “Neither did I. Never thought to worry about retirement, and now I don’t want to. Now, the best plan I’ve got is to work until something kills me, because otherwise...”

Coulson’s never seemed inclined to think of eating his own gun, but something in his voice gives Clint a good idea of what’s meant to follow that otherwise. “So quit. Do something else, have a family, or whatever.” Clint shrugs. “If it’s good enough for me, then it’s good enough for you.”

Coulson shakes his head miserably. “Too late. Gave my whole life to this job, now there’s nothing left to take back.”

“There’s always something left,” Clint replies. “No matter how much anybody takes, you can always keep something for yourself, if you hold on hard enough. As long as you’ve got that, you’ve got something to start over with.”

Coulson gives him a strange look, though it may be the bourbon making his expression so unsteady. “You’re a good person. Strong person.”

Clint refuses to feel warmed by the praise. “Uh huh, and you’re a very drunk person. So how about you finish that sandwich, and we’ll get you to bed?”

There’s a small chunk of sandwich left, and Coulson shoves it carelessly into his mouth. “Can fleef ob de coush,” he mumbles.

“Nope. You’re gonna sleep in the big comfy bed, with pillows and everything,” Clint tells him, retrieving the empty water glass to refill. “Now come on. You can keep being maudlin in the morning.”

“Not maudlin. Lonely,” Coulson grumbles. He trips as he slides off of the stool, and Clint catches him with an arm around the waist.

“Yeah well, right now, you’ve got me, so maybe there can be a little less of that,” Clint says.

“Definitely. Definitely less lonely with you,” Coulson murmurs, and the final, massive, mind-blowing shock of the night is when he leans in clumsily and kisses Clint on the mouth.

Okay, no, actually, the _final_ shock of the night is that Clint finds himself kissing back, gentle and restrained, with no impulse to pull away.

Coulson breaks off suddenly and stumbles back, wide-eyed. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. Oh my god.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “We’re definitely revisiting that line of thought when you’re sober. For now: bed.”

“But... No. I mean, you don’t...” Coulson protests, but he lets Clint steer him into the bedroom and stands meekly as Clint strips off his clothes. “Not how I pictured this happening.”

“Oh man, I hope you remember all of this tomorrow,” Clint says, “because I definitely want to hear about how you pictured me undressing you.”

Coulson is too drunk to blush, but he makes an irritated face that falls as Clint moves toward the door. “Are you...?”

“Going to get water and aspirin. Be right back,” Clint assures him. He doesn’t know if Coulson is a needy drunk or if it’s just the mood of the night, but he’s trying not to find it endearing. When he comes back, Coulson is sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, clearly trying not to fall over.

“I sat down,” he informs Clint. “On your bed.”

“I see that.” Clint shakes out a pill and hands it to him with the water. “Once you take that, you can even lie down.”

“You’re a good person,” he says as Clint directs him under the covers. “I said that already.”

“You might’ve mentioned it.” Clint smiles. “You’re not so bad, yourself.”

Coulson beams at him sleepily. “Knew you liked me.”

“I definitely do,” Clint agrees. “Don’t tell anybody. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

By the time Clint finishes his own nighttime routine, he expects Coulson to be fast asleep, but, as he slides into bed, Coulson tenses and blinks at him through the dark. “This is your bed.”

Clint yawns. “Sure is.”

“I’m in your bed.” He sounds a little stunned.

“Play your cards right, you mind end up in it again,” Clint says and is surprised again by how great that sounds. He scoots close and wraps his arm around Coulson, who curls into him. “Right now, though, it’s time for sleep.”

“Don’t have to do that,” Coulson mumbles.

“Want to. Now, go to sleep.”

“Good person.”

“Yup.”

“Can just go sleep on th-”

“Shut up, Coulson.”

It only takes a minute after that for Coulson to start snoring obnoxiously, and Clint sighs.

There is no shock whatsoever in the morning when Coulson wakes up with a massive hangover, but Clint is kind enough not to tease him until after breakfast. Then, fed, showered, and fully awake, they revisit some thoughts from the night before.

  


**100\. Warm, Clint**

Clint would totally make fun of Sam for getting him a blanket, but he’s too overwhelmed by the fact that he’s known the dude for all of five minutes and is already getting random gifts.

“The fuck is this for?” He means to say thank you. Honestly.

Sam shrugs. “Saw it. Thought you’d like it.”

And sure, okay, it’s got a black and purple chevron pattern with a border of arrows, so it’s not that much of a leap. Before Clint can actually thank him, Sam has wandered off, grinning.

Clint wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, heart pounding, which doesn’t mean anything except that it’s a day ending in ‘Y’. He flops back against the pillows and sighs. Attempts to get back to sleep will be futile, he knows, so he rolls out of bed and heads for the kitchen, wrapping his new blanket around his shoulders.

The tower is climate controlled and stays at a regulated temperature, but it always seems colder in the middle of the night. At least, that’s what Clint tells himself to explain his shivering.

Hot chocolate and old comedies are his go-to, most nights, and he’s just settled in with a warm mug and something starring Cary Grant when Sam appears with a mug of his own and a thin smile.

“Mind if I join you?”

Clint holds up the edge of the blanket, and Sam only hesitates for a second before settling close against Clint’s side and helping to tuck the big, soft cover around them both.

As the opening credits finish, Clint says casually, “Thanks for the blanket, by the way.”

Sam leans into his shoulder just a little bit more. “No problem.”

  


**103\. Worthless, Clint/Coulson**

_(follow up to[de-aged Clint prompt fill](http://archiveofourown.org/works/800754/chapters/3288884))_

They said he was a hero.

They said he was an Avenger, whatever that meant, and that something had happened to make him a kid again. Clint thought they were lying until Captain America - Captain frigging America! - had showed him a picture of a man with Clint's eyes wearing the uniform Clint had been tangled in when he woke up in the crumbling building. The man was big and strong and handsome and could have been an uncle, maybe, or a cousin, but Clint knew, somehow, that he wasn't.

Phil found him hiding in a closet in his - not his, the man in the picture's - room. Everywhere Clint hid, Phil or Natasha always seemed to find him, so he should have known he wouldn't be safe here.

"Everything okay?" Phil asked. He cracked open the closet door so that he could see Clint's face but didn't try to drag him out or crowd him inside.

" _No_. Go away," Clint growled, but Phil just gave him a sad look and stayed put.

Phil was the one who’d saved him from the building and made sure the doctors didn’t hurt him when they fixed Clint’s arm and scared off all the people who wanted to talk to Clint and poke at him. He wanted to like Phil, but Clint was smart enough to know that grown-ups were only nice until you did something wrong.

“Are you thirsty? I’ve got some juice boxes.” Reaching into his pockets, Phil pulled out a pair of cartons and held them out for Clint’s inspection. “You can have apple or...” He squinted at the other label. “Extreme Berry Explosion. Whatever that is.”

Clint kept his hand tucked under his cast. “How come you have juice boxes in your pockets?”

“I like to be prepared,” Phil answered, and Clint thought that was supposed to be a joke. Phil set one of the boxes down where Clint could reach and peeled the straw off of the other one. “I think I’m going to stick with apple. Seems safest.”

Why somebody as scary as Phil, who also had a gun, needed to worry about being safe, Clint didn’t know. He really was thirsty, though, so, after a second, he grabbed the other juice box, and Phil smiled.

“Natasha said that Steve talked to you,” Phil said casually. “I can imagine this is all a little confusing.”

“It’s stupid,” Clint grumbled. “I don’t wanna be a stupid Avenger.”

“I think that might be the sanest thing I’ve heard all day,” Phil told him. “You always seemed to like it, though. Grown-up you.”

Grown-up him. The man in the picture, who was big and strong and a hero and had friends. The man that Clint, with his tiny body and broken arm, wasn’t. “‘M not him.”

That made Phil frown, and Clint didn’t let himself flinch. “Not right now, but you will be. Once Stark and Banner figure out what happened...”

“What if they don’t?” Clint demanded. “What if I’m stuck, an’ I can’t do any of that stupid stuff anymore?”

“If that’s the case, which I doubt, then we’ll figure something out. You don’t need to worry about that, right now,” Phil said, and Clint snorted.

“Says you. Can’t send me back to mom and dad, ‘cause they’re dead. Don’t know where Barney is, and he wouldn’t want me anyway. Probably stick me in a home, or something.”

Phil’s frown deepened. “Why would we do that?”

Clint shrugged and sucked on his juice box, mumbling around his straw, “Not gonna want a dumb kid around.”

“Wait. What?”

He scrunched down smaller in the corner of the closet. “Can’t do all the stuff I’m s’posed to. No reason to stay.”

“And you think we’d just... what? Send you away? That we’d get rid of you just because you couldn’t do your job?” Phil said a swear word, and Clint tried to hide behind a pair of pants that were hanging near his face. “Oh for... Stop that. I’m not going to hurt you.” Phil took a deep breath, and he sounded less angry when he went on, “Clint, no one here is going to hurt you, and we’re not going to throw you out.”

“So what’re you gonna do with me?” Everybody had been nice to him, so far, but Clint knew how quickly that could change. Staying might be worse.

“I... I don’t know, “ Phil admitted. “But we’re going to take care of you, I promise. I am going to take care of you, and no one’s going to put you in a fu- futzing _home_.”

Clint stared back at him, thinking. Finally, he reached a conclusion. “You must’ve liked him a lot. Y’know, grown-up me.”

Phil blinked. “I... Yes, I did. I do. We all do.” He smiled and leaned a little closer to Clint. “I like you, too.”

“‘Cause I’m him?”

“Because you’re you,” he said simply. “Now, I think Dr. Banner needs you for another couple of tests. Are you okay to go and do that?” Clint thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Are you hungry? We could get a snack.” Clint shook his head again. “Do you want to sit in the closet a little longer?” Clint nodded. “Can I stay here with you?” Clint nodded again, and Phil’s smile brightened. “Thank you.”

Clint still wasn’t convinced that it was safe, here, but maybe it wasn’t so bad.

  


**104\. Yearning, Clint/Coulson**

When Phil’s phone rings at three in the morning, he should be asleep, but he isn’t. He gave up on on sleep sometime around a quarter past one, and, when he sees the name on the display, he’s glad he is.

“Hey.”

“ _Hey yourself. Did I wake you?_ ”

“No. No, I was getting some work done.”

“ _Couldn’t sleep either, huh?_ ” Clint’s voice is warm, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of resigned worry.

“Tried. Didn’t take. You?”

“ _Tossing and turning. Now I’ve got check-in in a few minutes, so I didn’t figure there was much point in trying again._ ”

Phil starts to ask what time it is there and stops himself. He’s cleared to know, if he needs to, but containing information is more important than Phil’s peace of mind. It’s a long mission with low-security, and Clint’s been calling when he can, which is to say not nearly enough.

“I miss you,” he says, and, in some unknown part of the world, Clint sighs.

“ _God, me too. So much_.”

“When you get back...”

“ _When I get back, I’m gonna go to bed with you and sleep for a day. Then I’m gonna wake up next to you and fuck you and have breakfast with you and fuck you and have lunch with you and nap and have dinner with you and fuck you and go back to sleep and do it all again the next day_.”

Phil swallows. He’s sitting up in bed, and he’s sure that, if he closes his eyes, he’ll be able to reach out and feel Clint’s body beside him. “Sounds like a plan.”

“ _Fucking great plan_ ,” Clint breathes. “ _Think they’d miss me if I got on a jet right now?_ ”

“I’ll meet you halfway. You’ll be back in time for breakfast,” Phil says, and Clint’s laughter is like a beacon across the distance.

“ _When I get back..._ ”

“When you get back, I may never let you out of my sight again.”

Clint huffs. “ _Sounds like a plan._ ” There is a distant noise on the line, and Clint says, “ _Guess I better get going. I... Well, you know._ ”

“Yeah,” Phil says. “I know.”

When the phone goes silent, the bed seems somehow more empty, and Phil pushes down the blank hunger in his gut and goes back to his work.

  


  * **18\. Cheerful, Natasha**
  * **38\. Embarrassed, Steve**
  * **53\. Hopeful, Clint**
  * **61\. Insane, Sam**
  * **85\. Possessive, Tony**
  * **97\. Trusting, Phil**



_(conditionsofhappiness sent me these and said “do all or none of them”. So I did all of them, all at once. :D)_

The blindfold is tight enough over Phil’s eyes that he doesn’t see the others, but he definitely hears them.

“Oh my god.

“That’s my car!”

“Oh my god.”

“Nice ass, Barton.”

“Oh my god. Guys, we’re so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“But they’re on my car!”

That one is definitely Stark, and Phil’s pretty sure the repeating dismay is from Captain Rogers, which would make this the single most mortifying moment of his life if Clint wasn’t still pressed against him, inside him, holding him open against the hood of the car. Aliens could invade right now, and Phil would trust Clint to take care of it.

“Hey, guys,” Clint says casually. “How’s it going?”

“Going. Going is what we’re doing. Right now,” Rogers announces, and there’s shuffling as he drags someone out of the room after him.

“But my car!” Stark moans. “You two smudge that paintjob and you’re dead to me!”

Phil resists the urge to scrape the metal edge of his gag over the fiberglass.

“Have fun, boys,” Natasha calls, and Phil can hear the smirk in her voice.

Someone lingers, and Phil realizes that it’s Sam when he asks, “So, uh, this is kinda crazy, but could I maybe... hang out for a minute?”

Clint snaps his hips, and Phil doesn’t even try to stop a muffled moan from escaping. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Oh hell yes,” Sam says, sounding a little dazed.

“You wanna watch or you wanna take a turn?” Clint asks, and Phil can almost hear Sam’s brain short out.

“That. Yes. That one. The second thing.”

“What do you think, baby?” Clint runs a hand up and down Phil’s thigh, soothing over the bruises his fingers have made. “You wanna let Wilson have a taste?”

Clint wants this, wants to get off on sharing Phil with someone else, and the restrained hope in his voice sends a shiver through Phil’s skin. If he says no, then Clint will chase Same off in a heartbeat, but Phil holds up three fingers for yes without second thoughts.

He can feel the smile as Clint leans down to kiss him between his shoulder blades. “Thank you.”


End file.
